Silent Hill: Fortunate Son
by Courier Seven
Summary: Joseph Wade is living alone, coping with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He's put Vietnam, and everything that happened there behind him. But some things, you can't let go of. Fate won't let you. He learned that when he received a letter from a certain someone in a certain town...[Read and review, sorry if the summary sucks. It's been a while.]
1. Bad Moon Rising

SILENT HILL:

FORTUNATE SON

Chapter One:

Bad Moon Rising

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><p><em><strong>Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,<strong>_

_**That well-known name awakens all my woes.**_

_**-Alexander Pope, "Eloisa to Abelard"**_

* * *

><p>'It always starts with a letter.'<p>

That was what I thought, near the end of the day.

The things you never want to hear, never want to have happen to you, they all seem to start with a letter. A letter from your dad, telling you your mom's not looking good and doesn't have much time left. A letter from the draft board, telling you where to go and who to see about taking an exciting trip to Cambodia or Hanoi or Iraq, and what the consequences of your absence will be. A letter from an old friend, telling you to meet him in a vacation town.

That last one sounds out of place, doesn't it?

Under normal circumstances, I may have agreed with you. The person who wrote this letter to me, however, was far from a friend in my eyes. And someone who I knew to be the type who didn't write.

But maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. My name is Joseph Wade. Maybe thirty years ago, when it meant something, I would have said "Joseph Wade, Private First Class of the United States Army".

That's right. Military man, born into a military family. Got the scars and bars to prove it. "Military Veteran" isn't actually much of a well-looked upon term these days, though. Maybe if you were on the beach at Normandy, or fighting the Nazis out of Britain, or some other glorious tale like that.

If your war was Vietnam, though…well. Not so much. Can't speak for the boys that fought in the Gulf War, or what's happening in Iraq right now, but from experience, Vietnam's not a war you're necessarily always proud to tell your grandkids about. It's not one the public gave you a hero's welcome for either, when you came back. Lucky me, though, that's the one I got.

There's not a day that goes by that I'm not reminded of it. I can see the face of a foreigner's child and think 'That one looks kind of like the one we fished out of hut we roasted'. Sometimes I see someone following behind me, out of the corner of my eye, and within moments I'm stopped, letting them pass by me. It's nothing against them, I just don't want to get stabbed or shot when I'm not looking.

There's lots of other little things, but I won't get into them. We'd be here all day. People must think 'what a weird old bastard he is!' when they see my strange behavior, but strange behavior comes with the condition that I brought back from 'Nam; Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. You've probably heard about it somewhere. Maybe you even paid attention.

It hits everyone who has it a little differently. Fits and attacks, of the anxiety and panic-y kinds, are most common, and they're triggered by different things. Some people get hostile, almost feral. Others shut down. I've done both. It's never any fun. It broke up my marriage, and now I only get to see my kid, Helena, a few times a year. Never for as long as I'd like.

I have to take medications with names I couldn't pronounce at gunpoint for the PTSD and depression each day. Once when I wake up. Once midday. Once before bed. And they work, don't get me wrong. I'm a lot better than I was before people started giving a shit about people like me, and I'm used to routine behavior. It's one of the benefits Boot Camp instills upon you.

The day I got the aforementioned letter started like that. Me taking my pills with a tall glass of water, fresh out of bed after making sure all my faculties were in order. Next stop, bathroom to freshen up. Following that, breakfast-a cup of coffee and some off-brand Raisin Bran cereal, and a check of the mail.

Among the regular clutter; my monthly bill from the superintendent, handful of offers from banks and other places looking to make a buck from a busted up veteran, I saw a letter. No stamp, no return address. By postal service code, it probably shouldn't have even been there. But here it was, with my name written, neatly in print, on the front of the envelope.

I set my other mail down on the table in my dinette, and set to opening the mystery letter. Inside, folded up, was a map, and a note written on a piece of scrap paper that looked like it had about five cups of coffee thrown onto it before being written on. The thought amused me, and I raised my coffee cup to take a drink of my own.

Then I saw the text on the letter. My coffee became an afterthought.

* * *

><p><strong><em>" Joseph,<em>**

**_Silent Hill. Find me._**

**_Isaac."_**

* * *

><p><em>Isaac. Isaac. Isaac. <em>

The name repeated through my mind, on loop. A broken record, reminding me of Vietnam. The memories that name brought with it were worse, though. Worse than the faces of the dead I still see at night. Worse than the smell of gunpowder, napalm, sulfur, cordite. Worse than the fires mingled with burning tires and rust and scorched tree bark and leaves, scattering like a rain of brass petals.

The devil himself could have signed a letter telling me my soul was forfeit to him, and I wouldn't have had the chill that torn scrap with those six words gave me.

Isaac Curtis was alive.

I got up from my chair, and tossed the letter and the still-folded map down onto the table. I put my tennis shoes-my pre-tied 'panic shoes'-on, grabbed a green zip-up jacket from the closet I kept my outdoor clothes in, and within a minute I was out the door, locking it behind me.

Room 201 of South Ashfield Heights. For seven years my home, and for the first time in a while, I was leaving there in a panic. Last time it was because I was having an anxiety attack-a documentary about the war on TV bringing back too many memories.

I passed by people as I walked down the hall,

_don't make eye contact they think you're fucking insane_

To the stairs. Elevator would be too confining, too slow. I had to get out, get out, _get out **now**_. When I made it outside I started walking. That's all I wanted to do…no. No, that's a lie. I wanted to run. I wanted to get as far the fuck away from that building as I could. But I walked. My bills would wait. The credit card companies could go do something off a bridge. I needed to get away. Escape.

I stopped at a convenience store for a few necessities that clinked around in the grocery bag, costing me half a week's paycheck. I'd make it back, I told myself. I needed this, I told myself.

* * *

><p>On a whim, my next stop on my aimless journey was a café. I normally despise places like that, but in my current mental state, the last place I needed to be was home. I ordered a coffee to make up for the one I'd abandoned at home, and sat outside to drink it. I could feel myself coming down from the attack, but indoors was still a no-go right now. I drank the coffee, collecting my thoughts as best I could. Isaac Curtis was a name I could never forget, but one that I'd pushed to the back of my mind. It only ever rose up to the surface occasionally, bringing a bunch of bad stuff with it; Anxiety, Depression, Night Terrors.<p>

As I considered the letter, and what it meant, I heard a chair scrape against the concrete, being pulled back so someone could sit across from me. I didn't look up at them. I wasn't so impolite as to ask them to move, but they could have picked a better place to sit, and a better person to talk to. I was taking a drink of coffee when they spoke.

" You know, a buddy of mine once told me something." A familiar voice spoke, as I took a long drink of my coffee. " He said, 'Russ, you ever catch me drinkin' at a hoity-toity café, you better pop me right on the fuckin' noggin'."

I lowered the cup and looked up to see an elderly man, about ten years my senior, wearing a priest's robe beneath a matching black trench coat. He wore a pair of thick rimmed glasses over his eyes, and his face wrinkled when he smiled. He reached across the meshed table and lightly tapped my head.

" Well," I responded with a smile, relaxing for the first time since I'd gotten up, " I once had a buddy tell me that he'd never want to bother a man drinking a nice cup o' joe, and he'd probably leave 'em the hell alone, lest HE get popped in the noggin'."

The priest nodded a little, thoughtfully, before replying, still smiling. " That guy was probably a real asshole, huh?"

" No doubt." I smiled back, reaching across to shake the hand of my best friend, Father Russell Williams, who shook it with such warmth that the January cold seemed to leave for a moment.

Not many priests I knew of were like Russell Williams, but then again, most people didn't serve in a war with their priest. I first met him back when I was first deployed, and he was basically our unit's 'Team Dad'. He was the most senior of all of us, built like a grizzly bear. His hair was brown, then, and the tattoos on the fingers of his left hand, spelling out "1967", the year he was deployed, weren't as faded. He didn't speak about his future, but I don't guess any of us in the unit thought "Papa Will" would go on to become "Father Williams". I guess somewhere around the time he came back he found God.

I couldn't say the same for myself, but for some reason the old bastard didn't give up on me. He'd seen me smiling and seen me in tears, and I was happy to say he was part of the reason I've been sober for about five years now. Something that filled me with guilt when I glanced down at the grocery bag full of beer bottles.

" How in the world have you been, Joe? I haven't seen you since the last meetup." he said, speaking of the last time me and our biker buddies, all vets, met. Russ was the leader of the group. We weren't like the kind of bikers that centered our lives around it, the kind you hear getting rowdy or anything, more like weekend riders meeting up once or twice every month and hitting the road.

" I've been better, I gotta say." I chuckled, rubbing the back of my head nervously. Russ's smile dropped and he folded his hands, looking suddenly like the pastor again. I'd been to his service a couple of times, but never frequently enough to be called a regular or even a member of the church.

" What's happened, Joe?" he asked, before spotting the bag through the ornate meshed pattern of the café's table. He turned his head, seeing the bottles inside, and looked back at me, sadly. " Oh, Joseph, you _haven't_."

I was guilty in an instant. I shook my head, making sure to make eye contact with him before I said, " Not yet.", lowering my head. He put one of his hands, on my free arm.

" Is whatever's troubling you that bad?" he asked, softly.

I nodded. " To me, yeah". I felt his hand squeeze my arm, and looked back up at him.

" What's happened?" he asked, again, pulling his chair around to the side of the table, closer to me so I could keep my voice down. I thought for a few moments. This man knew me, knew every one of my secrets. I didn't need to sit in a confessional booth to tell him, and he wouldn't spill them at gunpoint. He knew what had happened in 'Nam.

" I got a letter. From Isaac Curtis."

I saw Russ's mouth open only a little in surprise, but for someone like him, it was telltale for a greater shock. That's probably how I looked when I saw the signature on the letter. He took his hand away from my arm and thought, for a few moments. " I see. You're sure it's him? Not some prankster, someone that knows-"

" The only one I've told is you. I didn't even tell Sarah." at this, he pursed his lips and thought harder. Sarah was my wife, now ex. We'd met before the war, and married afterwards. We even had a daughter. But as the years went by, my mental condition worsened. And she couldn't handle it. The weeks of me waking at night, screaming, going into rage induced fits. I said and did some things I should never do to someone I married, and I can't blame her for leaving. We don't hate each other now or anything, and I still get to see Helena, our girl, now and then, but…it doesn't stop me from missing them.

" You're positive it's him?". Russ's voice snapped me back into reality. " Is it his same style of writing?"

" It's been so long that I can't even remember." I admitted.

He nodded. " Silly question, sorry. What did it say?" he went on.

" Just four words: 'Silent Hill. Find Me.', and his name."

He once again opened his mouth, this time at the mention of Silent Hill. " Oh…hm." he murmured, ponderingly. " I've heard the name somewhere before, but I can't recall where. I'd assume it's a town, if he's asking you to find him…"

" Do you think he's still alive, though?" I asked, my voice hopefully carrying the weight I meant the question to have. He turned and looked at me.

" I can't say, Joseph. I wasn't there, and you were the last one to see him. Nobody would blame you for what happened, but.."

I put my head in my hands, squinting my eyes like a kid that was getting too much shampoo in his eyes in the bath. I felt the sting of tears, and felt the memories coming back to me once more. Russell put his hand on my shoulder again. " Joseph, it's up to you." he said after a few moments. " It's up to you, if you want to try to find him. I won't question whatever decision you make, but going somewhere to get plastered isn't going to solve a thing. We both know that. Think _really _hard about what you're going to do."

I nodded. The sting around my eyes went away as I took in deep breaths, choking back a sob. Finally, once finally relaxed, I spoke once again.

" I think…I think I have to." I said, decisively. " If I don't, then I'll just wonder for the rest of my life. I've got too many things eating away at me, and I need to know." I chuckled a little, trying to add some humor to the strange, grim situation. Russ nodded. " You'll have to figure out where Silent Hill is yourself, though. I can't help you there."

" I think I have an idea on how to find out. I should…probably head back home." I said, rising up, leaving my empty coffee cup for a waiter or waitress to get. Russell stood with me and gave me a short hug, but one I probably needed.

" You'll be alright." he said with a smile. " You know if you need to talk, I'm a phone call away." he says. " By the way, how much did you pay?" He asked, nodding down to the bag of beer. It took me a minute to piece together why he asked.

" Oh, you don't have to." I said, running my hand across the back of my head, feeling my dark hair bristle against my fingers.

" I have to. You don't need this, Joe. You're stronger than you think you are. I'll dispose of it." he said. He'd reached down into the bag to see the receipt by now, after checking it with squinted eyes, he released it, took his wallet out, and handed me fifty dollars. I saw the look in his eyes, and knew he wouldn't accept a denial of the charity. He took the bag, in exchange, and I knew there wasn't any fighting with him. I couldn't, even if the thought had crossed my mind before he left.

With his free hand, he gave me a quick, halfhearted salute, one that I returned with a small smile after pocketing the two twenties and a ten. " Take care of yourself, Joseph. Good luck and God bless you." he said, turning after I'd said my "Goodbye", and heading down the street.

For a few moments I was alone, standing outside the coffee shop, before I took my tenuous first steps back to South Ashfield Heights. Russell was right; I could run and hide all I wanted, but that letter was still going to be there. I needed to check some things, have a plan, before I went out blind. First order of business was finding out where Silent Hill was. I didn't know where to look, myself, but I knew someone who did…

* * *

><p>" Sarah? Yeah, it's me, Joseph." I said, nervous, into the phone's speaker. Even after all this time, talking with Sarah still felt like I was trying to talk to someone who I'd done wrong, each time. Probably because I had done wrong. It wasn't her fault for the awkwardness, of course, but even so, what do you say? 'I miss you, I want a second chance? Without you I'm just a bitter old man counting the days until the big dirt-nap?'. I made conversation, simply out of habit. Catching up on things, all that.<p>

I'm pleased to hear that Helena is in a relationship now. Her first 'serious' one, since elementary school, where a romantic relationship meant an 'I Like You' and a kiss on the cheek now and then. It almost makes me forget about the occasion for calling.

" Has she told him-" I began, before being cut off by Sarah's correction. I feel an embarrassed heat rise to my cheeks. " Oh. 'Her'. Has Helena told _her _that her pop's a war vet and not to hurt her?" I ask, chuckling playfully at Sarah's exasperated response. " Well, coincidentally, I wanted to talk with her. Ah, wanted to have her look up directions to a town. She's the tech fiend, y'know. It's for business, I may have a job there." I said, lying and hoping she bought it, feeling guilty about the fib. A few moments later and I heard my daughter's voice on the other end.

" Hey there, dad!" my daughter, seventeen, chirped into the phone. I looked up instinctively at the picture on my living room wall, the most recent school photo taken of her. Dark hair like mine, but pretty blue eyes like her mom's. It's shorter than most other girl's by choice, and I guess that might have been a hint at something, considering what Sarah told me. But she's got her mom's freckles too, and a smile that warms my heart every time I see it. Below it is a newspaper clipping, with the headline,

" North Ashfield High School Wins Girl's Track Meet "

Followed by names of all the girls on the team. But only one name matters to me: "Helena Wade, 16". And a picture below it shows her with her team, and their trophy.

" Hey, Helena. Heard you're getting hitched soon." I said, playing embarrassing dad. Her groan told me I've done my job.

" Daaad." she groaned, though I could hear her smile in her voice. " You know we can't get married, even if I wanted to."

" Ah, I know. I'm just fuckin' with you. I'm happy for you though. Is she good?"

" Yeah, Casey-that's her name-she's really sweet to me. It took mom a while to get used to the idea, but she doesn't seem to mind. Glad you don't, either."

" I'm just happy if you're happy, hon." It was the truth, too. " So, your mom tell you why I called?"

" Nope, she just said you wanted to talk. What's up?"

" Well, a buddy of mine sent me a letter recently offering me work, and he told me to come to a place called Silent Hill. Damndest thing, though, he didn't tell me where it was. I was going to see if you could pull up anything on the computer about the place for me."

" On it." she said, and within moments I could hear the clicking of her fingers against her computer's keyboard. A few more moments. " Got something." she said, followed by a few clicks of her computer mouse. A thoughtful sigh and a humming noise, before she spoke up.

" Alright, here we go. There are actually two different towns in the U.S. named Silent Hill. One's in West Virginia, but you probably don't want that one. It's a mining town, says there are fires still burning underground. Not a safe place. The one you're after is probably the closer one, in Maine. It's a rural town that's popular for vacations, says here. It was built really close to Toluca Lake, and it's popular for couples and people looking for a special place to vacation. Really good place for weddings, etcetera, etcetera…hm. This is odd."

" What?". I feel the hairs on my arms bristle, instinctively. 'Odd' is usually a codeword for 'Bad shit' in my experience.

" Apparently a few people have gone missing there in the last twenty years. Doesn't name names, and the authorities don't seem to think anything's up, since the place is generally so peaceful. A few people suggested that they might have committed suicide by jumping in the lake, but nobody's ever sent a party down there to search. Some folks speculate about people practicing voodoo and witchcraft-y stuff."

" Well that sounds lovely." I say with a false chuckle.

" Yeah. All the same it's got great reviews from travel sites. I wonder what kind of work he'd want you to do at a vacation town though?"

" I'm wondering that myself…" I say, partially to myself. " Anyway, how long of a drive do you think it is?"

" Hmmm…probably no further than half a day's drive according to this map site. Let me know your address and I'll get you directions."

Several minutes later, I've written down the directions. Easy enough to follow. I thought to myself, while copying her instructions, that it was odd I'd never heard of the town if it were such a popular getaway. I couldn't recall even seeing a commercial or magazine ad for it anywhere. Maybe it was more of a word of mouth situation, though.

" Alright, got it. Thanks again, Helena."

" No problem dad. You sure everything's okay?" she asked. The question shouldn't have made me choke, but it did.

" Yeah." I said after a few minutes. " Yeah, it's just been kinda lonely here lately. Why'd you ask?"

" I just had a hunch." she responded, and I could almost hear the shrug she gave. " Just don't turn into a missing person's case, ok? Don't make me or mom have to come find you." she snickered. The statement was meant to have humor, but I had to force a laugh. Circumstances wouldn't have allowed a genuine one.

" Alright, hon. I'll call you when I get back. I guess I should start getting some stuff together and set out in the morning. Maybe the town'll do me some good, keep my mind off things." I said.

" Okay, dad. Really, though, just be careful. I miss you." she said.

" I miss you too." I responded. There was a pause of a few moments before I said " I love you."

" I love you too, dad. Take care."

" You too."

And with that, we said our goodbyes, and the phone went silent. A few moments later, it was back on the hook, and I was sitting at my table, once again staring at a letter from a dead man, trying to find the meaning in it.

I looked at the map that came with it, the one I had yet to unfold. I proceeded to do so, and found it to be rather large. It covered up half the table, fully unfolded. Somehow, I wasn't surprised to see that it was a map of Silent Hill.

One particular place on the map, however, was marked by a red circle:

" Cornerstone Apt. Building ".

Looks like I knew where he wanted to meet. I studied the map carefully, before standing up once more and popping my neck. A beer sounded good right about now, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Not after the meeting with Russell earlier today. I headed into my bedroom, eyes glancing at various items in my dim apartment as I made the trip; Books on the shelf I'd probably never getting around to reading, a Television I'd practically glued myself to, workout equipment in the corner of the living room closet I used to attempt to keep my body from becoming any more achy or worn than it already was.

Once inside my bedroom, I found myself looking up at a wall with several framed photographs lining it. Pictures from Vietnam. There was one of just me; a young boy with short hair, growing back in from its buzz cut I'd gotten for the military, bangs peeking out from under my helmet. In the picture, I'm looking at the camera, forcing the tiniest of smiles, my hands folded over the top of the butt of my gun, my thumb hooked into the strap of a bag I'm carrying off-camera. In this picture I'm still nineteen years old. It was taken on one of my first months on tour.

As the months passed, I would grow closer to the group I'm with in another photograph; a group of grizzled men, by this point all battle hardened. I'm standing next to Russ, then known as "Papa Will", a grizzled man of thirty who wouldn't be out of place in an eighties action movie. Nearby are a black man wearing a bandana to block the sweat from his forehead, and a balding guy with a pot belly sticking out from his open jacket, thankfully covered by a tank top underneath. They're Privates Frank Waters and "Poor Ol'" Jim Thomas, a guy who we used to joke had about as good luck with women in 'Nam as an armless man has playing baseball. There are a couple other boys in the picture, but curiously absent from this one is one of the squad's leaders-even though the real brains of the group was Russell, which everyone knew.

I remembered this man despite his absence in the photograph. Every line on his face. His hard jaw, his thick brow, his cold viper's eyes that had seen men die and a grim mouth that only seemed to smile when he had an assault rifle in his hands and a target in sight.

Gunnery Sergeant Isaac Curtis, my partner on several missions.

I couldn't recall why he was missing from this particular picture, but it was fine. His was a face I didn't need on my wall of memories. It was this picture though, that I wanted to see the most.

I reached for this picture, taking it from the wall, and exposing a safe that, with the superintendent's permission, I had built in. It was a simple white, plastic thing, big enough for maybe a shoebox, with a digital lock on the front.

As I entered the four digit password, "1-9-6-9", I chuckled to myself. _'The worst kind of shit you can get yourself into, the worst news you never want to hear, always seems to start with a letter.' _I thought. The digital display on the safe blinked the word "OPEN", and a click told me I could now open its door.

Inside of the safe was a shoebox. I carefully removed it, sweat dampening my forehead as I sat down on the bed with it. It was something I thought I would never need, but if Isaac Curtis really was alive, then I told myself that now was the time to take it out. I could not recall why I kept this memento, what possessed me to keep it in my residence, inside a safe, but life works in mysterious ways. The forces of nature, or the forces of fate, maybe even God, can tell people to do strange things with no immediate apparent purpose.

With a sigh that made me feel ten years older, I lifted the shoebox's lid. Inside it was a tool primarily used by soldiers in times of war. It was a standard issue M1911A1 pistol given to me during my service in the war. Next to it were two clips of bullets, and underneath were forms for my last will and testament, already done up.

I never thought I would need that fucking gun again.

But if Isaac was really alive after all this time, and if he really had called for me…then perhaps I would need to use it one more time.


	2. Follow the Leader

Fortunate Son

Chapter 2: Follow the Leader (Going to Silent Hill)

* * *

><p>"<em>I am the way into the city of woe,<em>

_I am the way into eternal pain,_

_I am the way to go among the lost."_

― _Dante Alighieri, Inferno_

* * *

><p>Sometimes I think about the things that happened to me in Vietnam. Six bullet wounds in various locations on my torso, and I count myself lucky that I only managed six. Numerous cuts and abrasions, not to mention the burns. When I came back, I'd reason to say that at least twenty percent of my body was scar tissue.<p>

I shot people. Watched them die. Sometimes I felt like they deserved it. Sometimes they shot first. Other times…not so much. When you watch the light in someone's eyes die, all their past, present, future, everything they were and will be turns to nothing. Soul leaves body. Nothing left of you but a husk filled with dead and dying parts.

I think about the things that happened in Vietnam, and it always brings me back to Isaac Curtis.

* * *

><p>The first time I saw Isaac Curtis, he looked at me and smiled. It wasn't a smile that made me feel welcome. He was at least ten years older than me, with a firm, square jaw, buzz-cut hair that was going white in a few places set against its original blonde. He had a wrinkled brow, and he looked older than he was. I think he was at least in his thirties, but he looked much older, maybe forty or fifty.<p>

His manner was friendly enough, but his smile told me that he could eat me for breakfast and not feel guilty about shitting me out later. "Don't fuck up," it said, " Or I'll fuck you up".

I'd seen the same smile on my father's face when I was younger. I hated that look.

"Welcome to paradise." he grinned at me, and those were his first words to me. I remember looking around at that jungle, seeing fires in the distance, and if it was quiet, I could hear gunfire far away. In our main camp, The Ink Spots were crooning about a shanty town on a nearby radio that sat atop an old, rusted barrel that might have held oil at some point. Some of the boys were shirtless, laughing and chugging back cheap beer. A few feet away, in a tent, a grown man wept as he looked down at his hand, which was missing two fingers. He looked badly burnt. Someone next to him was covered in bandages, and I could not see them breathing.

Paradise.

* * *

><p>I looked at the photos of Vietnam on my wall one more time, and sighed. I didn't want to see Isaac Curtis again. But I had no choice. If I didn't go, if I simply ignored that letter, ignored the implication of it, and went on with what little of a life I had left, I would have spent that time wondering 'was it really him'. And if it wasn't, who would have known about him, and what happened?<p>

I looked at my new backpack I'd bought from the local Sears earlier that day. I could have dragged my old time-worn one from Vietnam along, for nostalgia's sake, but I didn't. The thing probably couldn't have held a loaf of bread without falling to pieces.

The new one was olive green, like its ancestor, though. More pockets, but at the same time, more civilian. I wasn't outfitting myself for combat,

_Then why are you bringing the pistol_

So I didn't see the point of raising suspicion.

Inside the pack were a few health drinks, flavored like chocolate milk, with a vague hint of chalky taste to them. I hated the taste initially, but over time grew a strange addiction to them. Better than what I used to drink, anyway, and besides, they were part of the reason I was still as fit as I was. Which, granted, wasn't anywhere near boot-camp level anymore, but still, I could hold my own if I needed to throw down.

Also inside was the map of Silent Hill, a portable radio-MP3 Players may be coming into fashion, but I still prefer the old ways-and a clip-on flashlight, in case I ran into any trouble on the road at night, and plenty of batteries for both, along with a first-aid kit. Hey, you never know.

Tucked beneath all this, however, was a holster, attachable to just about any belt, and inside of that was my M1911A1 Pistol. The first pistol I was given, and the last I'd ever use. At least I hoped so. Along with that were two boxes of ammunition. I don't know what spurred me to take so much, but looking back on things, I would feel grateful to myself.

It was almost like fate was telling me things were about to get FUBAR.

* * *

><p>I made one stop before I left, and that was to "Father" Russell Compton's house. He had phoned earlier today, saying he wanted to see me before I left. I didn't know why, myself, though part of me expected him to tell me not to do anything stupid because it'd look bad in the eyes of the Lord, but he was still my best friend. I couldn't refuse him.<p>

I knocked a few times on his door, and heard a few heavy footfalls from inside. That would be him. I heard him speaking with a woman-his wife, if I had to guess from this side of the door, before he opened the door, seeing me. He looked taken aback at first, almost like he hadn't actually expected me to show up. I offered a smile, and he responded in kind. "C'mon in, Joseph. Marian was just heading up to take a nap; her headaches are coming back."

Russell's wife of ten years, Marian, waved at me with a smile. " Hello Joe, haven't seen you in an age. You really need to come by for dinner once you get back from your vacation."

"I'll surely try." I smiled back at the kindly woman. She merely nodded-she'd always been a bit soft spoken, before rising up from the couch in the living room and beginning to go upstairs.

"Take a seat, Joe." Russ said, gently, but with a tone of concern behind it, once he was sure Marian was out of earshot. I lost my smile once I detected that tone, but sat down all the same.

Russell sat down next to me, lifting a small stack of paper, apparently printed out from his computer, from his coffee table. He personally wrote all of the Sunday bulletins for his church, and it surprised me to see that he had printed out so much, especially when it appeared that none of the papers had nothing to do with his church.

" How much do you know about Silent Hill?" He asked me. I was taken aback a little by the bluntness of the question.

" Well I asked my daughter about it last night. She said it was a vacation town. A generally peaceful place, not a lot of news coming out of it, but there'd been a few-"

"Disappearances." he nodded, looking down at the papers in his hands, cutting me off.

" Uh…yeah." I nodded. "Look, is something the matter?"

" You're dam-" he started, almost raising his voice in a shout, but biting the inside of his lip. Even with the few syllables of rage he managed, I was still surprised. These days, Russ never raised his voice, and swearing was almost beyond him now that he helped run the church. He took a deep breath, muttering something that sounded like a quick prayer under his breath, before looking back at me.

For the first time in years, I saw frustration, directed at me. " Yes, Joseph, there's something very much the matter. Silent Hill is…strange. Wrong. Forgive me for saying so but I've done a bit more research than your daughter, I think. The town is not normal."

" Care to explain, Russ? I haven't seen you like this in years."

He nodded with reluctance and pursed lips, a sigh whispering through his nostrils as he handed me the stack of papers, and sat down on his couch. By his manner, he was ready to tell a story, and he'd piqued my interest with his behavior. I sat down in the easy chair across from him.

" It isn't without cause that my tone's a bit dark here, Joe." He began. "The town is old. Very, very old. Older than colonial America. And old towns have stories…secrets. It had a different name back then, but it was still the same land.

" Native Americans were settled here around the sixteenth century. Evidence that's been dug up in the last few years suggests that they had Gods here, local to this area. They prayed to them, made animal sacrifices. Their totems and artifacts are regarded as strange, among historians, because the animals depicted didn't match any descriptions of wildlife local to the area. They were so strange that they initially didn't believe that they were authentic. The place had a name that translated to 'The Place of the Silenced Spirits'.

" The name, like so much else, changed when settlers began to appear around the early sixteen-hundreds. The natives lost their land and their rights, and the English began to set up shop. Things went as things do, until there was an outbreak in the early 1700s. No one knows exactly what happened, but it was enough for the town to become abandoned for almost a century. Around the time of the War of 1812, the town was resettled, this time as a penal colony.

"This meant that the town was filled with prisoners of war, or Native Americans that resisted the treatment they were getting, and consequently, a lot of people died there. This was when the town got it's name, which was a loose translation of the original Native's name for it: Silent Hill."

" Spooky story." I replied, and I wasn't lying. It made me shift in my seat a little to hear about how the town came to be. " But I'm still-" I began, before he cut me off with a lift of his hand.

" I'm not done." he responded. His tone was gentle but something in his eyes said 'Shut up and listen'. I closed my mouth and nodded for him to go on.

" In the late 1800s, they built a hospital. The reason was, the townspeople were beginning to grow ill once again. The sickness, the plague from almost a century before was coming back. This was at the same time the Natives that had returned long ago were being forcibly removed, not only from the area around the town but the state.

" So many people had died by then that the prison they'd built closed, and the town's main distinguishing building became Brookhaven Hospital. But things began to turn once more, after the disease had run its course and new settlers began appearing. A major coal deposit was discovered, and the Gillespie and Wiltse coal mines opened. This revitalized the town, and steadily-but-quickly, other buildings cropped up. A town hall, a school, a park, doctor's offices, saloons, so many others. It was a boom town. Roads were formed. People farmed here, and things grew. All the blood from before was soaked back into the soil, dried into the dirt, and now these people were thriving on top of them.

" When the Civil War came, though, they reopened the Toluca Prison Camp for POWs. History repeated, but thankfully not for as long this time. Once the war ended, the prison camp was converted into just Toluca Prison. It's gone now. A Historical Society sits on top of where it used to be.

" We're coming up to the early 1900s now, and around this time, the Natives were basically non-present in the town, organized resistance all across the country had dissolved. This was around the time people started going missing."

" Okay, you can stop, I get it, the town's spooky, Russ. I know you don't want me to go but you don't have to make up stories about-"

Once more I was cut off. Russ reached forward and pulled the papers out of my hands with an aggression I hadn't seen in a long time, flipping through them until he pulled out a scanned and printed article from an old newspaper from the early 1900s, the Silent Hill Centennial.

" Fifteenth Missing: Silent Hill Mayor Says 'Do Not Be Alarmed'."

I scanned the article, best as I could read it. It talked about how fifteen people had gone missing in the last two months, but the Mayor and police did not believe murder or foul play was involved, saying that 'people have come and gone in this town for a long time.'"

I looked back up at Russ. He must have seen something in my expression, because he took this as enough for him to go on.

" The prison closed soon after this. The town became a tourist attraction in 1910 or roundabouts. The disappearances never stopped, though. Did you know that in 1918, an entire ship went missing on Toluca Lake? The Little Baroness, it was called. It just sailed away one foggy morning and no one could ever find it. Not even a plank, splinter, or a floatation device. They actually looked, this time. The families demanded answers that never came, and people worried, but not enough to where they let it disrupt their daily lives. Not even in '38, when lights started appearing at night on the lake, and shadows began treading the water like it were solid ground, according to night watchmen and fishermen."

By this time Russ was beginning to perspire, even though it was chilly in the house. Or maybe it was just me.

" They built churches there, but the churches didn't have crosses. The big ones didn't, anyway. They had others that did, but nobody ever went there. Just the preachers and pastors and a few followers in each one. The town was religious, but nobody outside knew, for a long time, what kind of religion it was.

"Accidents started happening on the water. Boats would stall and stop, oars would get pulled underwater as if they were being dragged out of the boatmen's hands, stranding them on the water until someone else came along, or fog would roll in and disguise rocks or other dangers. Wiltse Coal Mine closed, while the Gillespie Mine thrived for several years afterward. You can imagine that around this time, the area had a poor reputation for sightseeing. And yet it thrived, by all accounts a financial success.

" In 1963, something else happened. The Mayor died, suddenly, of something completely unexplainable. The coroner's report noted nothing wrong with him. No cancer, no risk for heart attacks, no palpitations or anything, no history of excessive drinking and by the man's family's admission, he never touched any illegal substances in his life. He was a healthy, middle aged man, and he simply expired at his desk.

" This wasn't the only strange death that year. One after the other, the staff of a developmental group for a town began dying. One fell down a flight of stairs, the other committed suicide by leaping from the roof of a hotel. Another man committed suicide by removing his genitals and slitting his wrists after wrapping a plastic bag around his head. Someone even managed to doze off and drown themselves in a bowl of soup. You find this incredibly hard to believe but I assure you, each one is listed in the packet I've given you."

I didn't deny a word that he was saying. Something wouldn't let me properly voice all the doubts swirling around inside my head. " This is all incredibly hard to swallow, yeah. I don't entirely see the relevance to my situation though, Russell."

My old friend went on anyway, ignoring my last statement. " The town's new Mayor was reclusive. He seemed to have dealings with members of the Nameless Church that had appeared in the town years before. The Mayor after him as well. The Christian church was all but nonexistent by this point. By this point it should be becoming clear to you that what was controlling this town was no mere church, but a _Cult_."

He emphasized the last word with a hiss through his teeth, like he were uttering a forbidden word, whispering it to keep it from someone's ears. It gave me pause to hear this, along with all the rest. I had never heard of an entire town being controlled by a cult before. Maybe a few settlements, but not a full town.

" The cult, which was called The Order, had been guiding the town's development for years. Nothing extraordinary was out of place while they ran it. The United States Government didn't pay much attention to the town outside of census figures and the like. The Order ran the town from behind the scenes, comfortably, controlling nearly everything. Newspaper circulation, politics, religion especially, even the drug trade. A drug named PTV became prevalent, circulating among tourists, corroding the soul of the town even further. A criminal investigator attempted to trace this to its source. He died. The latest mayor at the time attempted to crack down on the trade, but he was in a terrible car accident the day before he would sign a bill putting his efforts into action. The newly appointed mayor turned a blind eye to the trade, and everything went on as it used to, until 1983."

" What happened in '83?" I asked. I didn't recall anything out of the ordinary happening in Silent Hill at the time, but then again it was a town I'd never cared to notice until just the day before, and the eighties were rough for me anyway.

" I don't know, precisely, only that the Order's activity seems to have halted for the most part. Things trickle out every now and then about news from that time-a man affiliated with a local police officer helped bring down the Order. Or at least slowed it down substantially."

" I'm guessing this is around the time the disappearances stopped and the town went back to normal?"

" No." Russell said, bluntly. He looked pained-sad and anxious. He actually checked over his shoulder as he spoke. "No, they didn't stop. And they still haven't." he said, pulling out another sheet from the stack, passing it over to me. There was a picture of a man and wife, both blonde, smiling and hugging each other in a romantic pose on a boardwalk in front of a gorgeous looking lake.

" James Sunderland and his wife, Mary. Mary was sick with a rare, aggressive terminal illness, going by her family. And James was growing more and more visibly distressed. One day, close to what should have been the end for her, both just…vanished. Local police noted that a diner had served Sunderland lunch the day he went missing. The waitress said he was heading to Silent Hill to 'find somebody special to him'."

" Jesus. You think he killed her, or…"

" I can't say. No one can. There's been no trace of the vehicle, no sign that Sunderland ever even entered the town, by any record. Short of searching Toluca Lake, everyone seems to think the guy just disappeared off the face of the earth. But he wasn't the only one. Just one of the ones that the news picked up on."

" How many others?"

" That are on record of having entered or known to be headed toward Silent Hill, or the ones I had to find scraping around on internet forums?"

" Either."

He looked at the papers again, and swallowed. " Fifty. Fifty that I know of, since 1970."

" You're shitting me." I said in a near whisper, my throat dry, feeling my brow draw in. " There's no way that many people go missing without government getting involved."

" If they have, extensively, it's been kept well guarded. That many people have gone missing, and the majority of them-this is the most important part, the one takeaway I want you to get out of this damned campfire story-almost all of them had something psychological wrong with them. Post-partum depression, anxiety, anorexia, bulimia, bullied kids, and war veterans…people with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Almost all of the missing were damaged in some way."

I thought about this for a long time. Part of me wanted to argue. Part of me knew that this was stupid. That Russ had probably just cooked all this up the night before to keep me from hurting myself, or anyone around me, but then there was Russ' tone. It was the same conviction, the same importance that he used when he was at the pulpit. He believed what he was saying, and that, in turn, made me believe too, if only enough to know that a lot of damaged people had gone there.

" You think they went there to die?"

" It wouldn't be out of the question. There are places with a sort of dark importance, places that call the damaged, looking to end their lives. There's a forest in Japan, Aokigahara: the sea of trees. There was a news report about it a while ago on television. At least a hundred suicides occur there almost every year. Even with suicide patrols, even with warnings, and this stigma, people go there and they manage to kill themselves. People have attributed an almost paranormal aspect to the place for its ability to draw the suicidal there."

" You think Silent Hill is a place like that?"

" It may be. I have tried to keep an open mind, Joseph, you know that. My faith may call for me to believe in Holy Spirits but I believe there is room for other spirits-the ones who died young, or violently, or were so attached to the world that they couldn't let go even in death. Silent Hill may very well be a town of such things, where the spirits are not placid due to the town's violent history. Or there could be other things, worse things at work-this is a town where an Order was built that worshipped dark Gods-things we would call Devils, and demons. Or it could simply be reputation and freak coincidence that brings these people."

Russell's words swirled around in my mind. I didn't believe in ghosts or ghoulies or spooky things, and I wanted to laugh, just wanted to laugh it all off. But there again, was his belief in his words. And if the word of a Pastor isn't convincing enough, then the word of my best friend surely had weight.

I came back to something he said earlier. "I'm not going there to die, Russell. I'm going there-"

" To find a dead man." he cut me off. " Or a man that should be dead." he said, replacing the papers on the coffee table that separated us. " Are you sure of your own words?" he asked.

I should have known the answer. I should have spoken it immediately, but my tongue dried up when I tried to make it move. I could only stare. And sweat, even though I was cold. My bag was heavy. The gun inside my bag was heavy. Why did I need that much ammunition? Why did I tell myself I needed five cartridges of pistol ammunition?

" I'm not going there to die." I repeated, finally, rising to my feet. " I'm not suicidal, Russ. I haven't been in years, and I don't intend to start up again."

" I certainly hope not." Russ sighed, sadly as he rose to his feet. " God be with you,

He shook my hand and walked me back outside. The morning air was cold, and the sky was gray. In the distance I could see a few rays of sun trying to pierce the veil of gray and white, but it wasn't any use. The day had decided, it seemed, to be gray, and Mr. Sunshine could go kiss his ass.

A car sped down the road, the engine revving spectacularly, clearly, sounding like a missile in flight and it might as fucking well have been, the way it made me twitch.

I exchanged a few last pleasantries with Russell, and made him a promise, before getting back into my car and setting off for Silent Hill once more.

" If you do find Isaac, Joseph…do what you need to do, to be at peace. And come back."

* * *

><p>The drive was nearly three hours, counting traffic. It was nearly nightfall, going by both my car's digital clock and the darkening sky. On the classic rock station, Hendrix was singing about the Joker and the Thief trapped in their cell, and my car's heater had just kicked back on after five miserable minutes.<p>

Outside the car, the chill of night would be settling in. My best bet would be trying to find a hotel or motel to stay the night in, once I got to the town itself. Going by the directions I'd written down, I wasn't far from the place, and traffic was practically nonexistent. The drive was rather peaceful, to put it plainly, and yet it felt like the calm before a storm; the quiet before a tornado.

As the song got to the part about the two riders approaching, and the wind howling, I passed a large, green sign with four words written in giant, fancy looking font:

'Welcome to Silent Hill.'

I chilled a little. Something about the way it was written didn't seem welcoming, to me. Something about the font, maybe? The way it was painted? I had no idea. And I didn't have time to concentrate on the thought. I was mainly concerned about driving to my destination. I had passed the welcome sign but I couldn't see any sign of the town.

Then again, I couldn't have seen Jack Shit if it was waving a neon sign two feet in front of me, truth be told. The thickest fog I'd ever seen had started to roll in, and this, combined with the nightfall, had severely limited my field of view. This part was strange, I registered that much. It had been clear five minutes ago, and the weather had called for no fog, only cloudy skies and a chance of rain.

My attention was almost exclusively devoted to the road, which was becoming less and less visible. Hendrix's guitar faded out, into static. This admittedly puzzled me too since, being familiar with the station, dead air immediately after a song was unusual, but I chalked it up to me being out of its regular range.

I took my eyes off the road for a moment to check the time and turn the radio off. In that moment I registered two things, one after the other. One, the clock was screwed up. It was a jumble of green bars, trying desperately to make numbers, and two, the static was picking up even though I hadn't even touched the volume dial.

When it shrieked something at me, I jerked my head up in time to see a tree growing in the road, my car coming on it far too fast. I planted my foot on the brake but it was too late. I slammed into the tree at forty miles per hour. The windshield shattered into a rain of glass that spilled into the car, tiny pieces the size of snowflakes bouncing across my face and leaving little cuts, as my head slammed into the steering wheel. The airbag deployed a second too late, shoving me back against my seat as the car spun wildly. I think I heard a tire popping through the ringing in my head, but I was too dizzy to register anything after the knock to my head.

The alarm started going off, the headlight that wasn't ruined blinking off and on in time with the annoying repetition of the horn.

_Eee. Eee. Eee._

I tried moving my arms or legs, but there was no strength in them. I was slipping. I thought about a lot in the last minute I managed to keep myself conscious, fighting my brain wanting to shut itself down for that long.

I wondered if I was going to die.

_Eee. Eee. Eee._

The airbag started to deflate. I sank with it against the steering wheel, my head slowly, shakily moving to look at the tree I'd hit. My neck wasn't broken, or I don't think it was, or else I wouldn't have been able to do that much.

Who leaves a tree in the middle of the road, I thought. I wanted to laugh at the genius who'd done that, and punch the guy who'd left it.

I thought about how I'd never see my daughter again or hear her voice if I didn't stay awake.

_Eee. Eee. Eee._

The tree looked wrong. Not very tall as far as trees went.

_Eee. Eee. Eee._

The branches were moving even though I couldn't feel any wind, but at the time I felt like that was partially due to my face numbing.

_Eee. Eee. Eee._

Yes sir, this tree was very wrong. Too dark, too, or was that just the world going fuzzy and dim on me? How the hell was this thing not even damaged? Not even a branch in the road.

I moaned and tried to cough, but nothing came except a stupid-sounding wheeze.

**_Eee. Eee. Eee._**

The world was going dark. There was no use fighting it now. I had to let it come. Had to hope some helpful bastard could come along and save my sorry old ass. There was no traffic coming in, so that wasn't very likely.

I could hear a siren somewhere in the distance though. Maybe it was an ambulance, but in my head it sounded wrong, just like the tree looked wrong. It sounded more like an air-raid siren than an emergency vehicle.

Just before it all went dark, the tree's legs moved. Legs. It was walking toward me, branches still swaying in the nonexistent breeze, and the arms that had been at its sides spread outward ever so slightly.

It wasn't a tree. God help me, it wasn't a tree and even though now I could see that the tall thing was shaped like a person, it was a poor imitation.

I saw its face, and I wanted to scream, but the world went dark. The horn went silent, and in the distance there were sirens and scraping footsteps against asphalt approaching. The siren got louder, and louder, until it was inside my head, and I hoped for an ambulance, I hoped for the police, I hoped for something to get me away from this wrong thing in the middle of the road.

Then there was nothing but silence and darkness.

* * *

><p><em>Before me there were no created things<em>

_But those that last forever—as do I._

_Abandon all hope you who enter here._

― _Dante Alighieri, Inferno_

_Outside in the cold distance, _

_A wildcat did growl._

_Two riders were approaching,_

_And the wind began to howl._

_- "All along the Watchtower", by Jimi Hendrix/Bob Dylan._

* * *

><p>Author's Note:<p>

So after forever, here's a new Silent Hill story from me. My previous one, Return, has long since been abandoned. I just could not construct a story around it, and I hope that my new one fares better.

The base idea for this came from thinking about Homecoming. When I read a TV Tropes article, in one of the YMMV sections it talked about how some fans considered using a soldier, and all the baggage they carry, as a good idea for a story, but the game didn't run with it well enough.

So I decided to try out a story of my own with that basic concept, and throw a few other goodies in there. Inspiration for this story is heavily based on some of Steven King's short stories, and I've been watching others such as Jacob's Ladder and Apocalypse Now for further inspiration. I am also heavily researching PTSD to make sure that I capture the condition properly, or as well as one can in writing.

I hope you all enjoy this trip.

(Note that this story is also on AO3 under my Docjackal account there, and I'll probably be adding a few extra goodies to that one including pictures, map snippets showing where Joseph is in the town, that kind of thing. I'm going to do my best to make sure that both versions are perfectly readable without the extra content though, that site just offers more in the way of customization.)


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